


Gods Bleed Too

by Angel_of_Destruction



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Asexual Enjolras, Drinking, First Meetings, Lyrical Description/Mention of Masturbation, M/M, Narcissism, Painter Grantaire, Poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 01:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_of_Destruction/pseuds/Angel_of_Destruction
Summary: In the Renaissance Italy a poor artist is trying to find inspiration and customers in order to earn money. Having a difficulties with that he decides to visit a random gathering of young boys to heal his desperation and miserable condition with alcohol and oblivion.But an unexpected opportunity gives him the glimpse of hope.“I am bored. I wished to see a deity.”





	Gods Bleed Too

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters.  
> Sorry for my possible grammar mistakes, English is not my mother language.

The symposium was just like any other. Heavy, hot air, thick with the smell of alcohol and food. Smell of joy and women.

It’d been the third month without customer, without work and normal food. An artist’s life was never the easiest, especially when he was not the supporter of the current ruler. By the gods, he would have kissed the feet of whatever king for the money. But, apparently, he was an unwanted company in the higher classes and rich circles. He had an attitude. His drinking problems got more serious the last weeks, he was returning to the well-known vicious circle. Maybe it was bound to happen.

The current group of people was full of strangers, but they were friendly at least. He quickly found some topics to share and alcohol made it easier to find friends than anything else that he possessed. His personality was not the most pleasant. The young boys all around brought him back a sort of nostalgic atmosphere, and he decided to stay till his money and the others’ patience would allow it. Who knows, maybe he’d receive some invitation or work-request. Some used him as a jester and asked him to draw comical characters, caricatures of popular people, or the friends of friends. He didn’t care, till they paid for it.

He was listening to a fiery conversation between two boys about politics and intellectual flow of consciousness, when he noticed a remarkable youth in the crowd. He was sitting on a sofa like art, like he was posing for a painter, not so far away, being absolutely carried away by his own passionate monologue. It didn’t take long to realize he was different – he didn’t mingle with the cheering and drunk crowd and he maintained a certain otherworldly attitude. The attitude and coldness of a narcissist. The man that he was talking to looked just as serious as him, but his face possessed more warmth. They isolated themselves so visibly - maybe they were the organizers.

The Artist didn’t have much time to stare because the blonde youth stood up, ready to leave the scene. He couldn’t see it well, but he looked irritated, the unique face darkened with a condemnatory frown. Were they arguing? He rose from the seat, slightly feeling dizzy and decided to approach the serious man that stayed sitting on the sofa.

“I want to talk to your friend.”

The man lifted his brows and sent him a questioning glance. The Artist didn’t expect judgement because his common sense was lulled by the alcohol. He took a sip from the goblet in his hand and sent him a grin. “Is it forbidden?”

“He is going to take a bath. If you are quick you can catch him.”

The man was going to continue the talk, most likely with curious questions like “who are you?” but he left in hurry without giving him a chance.

He left the music and the cheerful people behind, without feeling any sorry for that. He had a brand new goal now and no one could stop him. It took him some time to find the right corridor but luckily, with the help of some strangers he reached the bath-section. His steps quickened as he rushed, gasping for air as the shadows and the light of the torches finally revealed him the person he was looking for.

“Apollo!”

He called and saw the blond stop. It was the first name that crossed his mind – not the delusion of his drunk mind but a very deliberate and serious assumption. He was an artist. He didn’t believe in the gods but he knew how they looked.

He thought he was not mistaken when he chose to give him the nickname. The boy was stunning, like embodiment of some naïve poetry. For a second he felt like it was not the drink that played with his sense of balance but the sight.

“Are you talking to me?” his Apollo asked, his voice was tough like a soldier’s. He didn’t expect such iron-like tone from a pleasant creature like that. He expected him for being shy, not firm. Now he was sure he truly was closer to gods than humans.

The Artist smirked, taking a sip of his remained wine. He tried to look as confident as he could.

“I am bored. I wished to see a deity.”

The other looked confused, silently eyeing the stranger front of him. Observing, like he could see through him, like he could burn a hole into his mind to reveal his hidden intentions.

“I’m visiting the bathhouse.”

“Obviously, you are.” the Artist said, showing around in the room. “I hope you don’t mind if I join.”

There was a little disdain in the youth’s eyes, silent judgement that he didn’t care to elaborate and make vocal. He gave a curt nod and turning his back he continued his walk. The pace was slower now, as he intended to wait the stranger. There was some strange tension in his moves, almost like he was calculated.

“I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“Your divine memory serves right. It’s my first time with a god.”

The youth glanced away, and the Artist could witness a tiny little amusement on his face. How he pursed his lips like he was thinking – he liked it. Yes, he was obviously pleased. What god wouldn’t like being worshiped by a human? He felt like he found a key to open this door, he thought he had a hold on this creature so decided to stuck with him for the night. And explore.

“I didn’t expect company.”

“Are you bashful?”

“Maybe.”

The reply was almost like a warning. The Artist shrugged.

“Well, I don’t believe you are. You have everything that one would dream of. Beauty is not something one should feel ashamed for.”

The words seemed to stir the blonde’s interest. He glanced back at him, his eyes scanning the features of the stranger. His gaze exposed his fatal obsession with himself and he couldn’t hide it any longer. His gaze showed that he knew the Artist was right. It was an almost sinful thing to sense - almost like a silently shared secret with the exchange of quick glances- that the Artist knew that too.

He walked to the edge of one of the evaporating pools, took off his tunic and got into the water. It was too quick, too sly, that the Artist couldn’t get a glimpse. He blamed the thick vapor for that that covered them both like a benevolent and intoxicating veil, when they were both in the pool already.

“So what do you believe in?” the blonde asked, watching him like an inquisitor.

“I’m an artist. I don’t believe in anything but my brush.” he replied and saw the other’s jaw getting tense. The youth looked defiant, like he didn’t expect such a thing.

“You call me a god, but you lack belief. What sort of mockery is this?”

“I am strong enough to live without belief.”

“Or perhaps.” The blonde took a little vial, opened it. “Your weakness lies in this. You are running from everything that could tie you down. Every solid thing. You don’t dare to stop running because you are scared that reality catches you.” Without any artificial mannerism he poured the bath oil into his palm.

“I have never analyzed myself to know that. I am not that interesting.” the man smirked.

“You don’t believe in anything, but you must have a plan for the future. Will you return to the symposium?”

“Yes. And drink till I pass out.”

The other’s curious glance swept over his flushed cheeks – flushed by the alcohol that he had consumed before. Flushed by the heat of the bath’s vapor. It was suffocating there.

“I see.”

Two simple words, but the world’s most vicious judgement was wrapped in them. It sounded like honeyed venom.

“But maybe I am planning to join you.”

The statement surprised the blonde so he continued.

“I mean, I’m aware that I’m an impeccable company, however, I highly doubt I could entertain you.” Suddenly he felt so dumb and little. Dull to share the whatever intellectual and cultural knowledge with this creature. He was an artist, he didn’t lack education, but this company looked far too elite for him. It was most likely a bad idea to reveal his stupidity and primitive way of thinking. He was unsophisticated. He was a skeptic.

“Is it that you want? To entertain me?  How am I so important to you all of a sudden?” the blonde youth lifted a brow and the Artist swallowed. It was inaudible, it was heavy. It started feeling like an enormous weight was placed on his chest and the breathing was getting more and more difficult in there. He felt dizzy, had to get out of there…

Loud, boisterous laughter interrupted the tense ambiance. It was coming from the great hall, where the symposium kept poisoning the minds and bodies with the unlimited and great amount of alcohol. The Artist shot a glance toward the marble arch of the bath’s entry, like he could see the cheering people through the walls. His green eyes rested there only for a second as the golden curls passed by his gaze, leaving him alone in the water. Heavy scent of sandalwood filled his nostrils and he followed the motion of the divine creature with an obsessed glance, he didn’t want to miss anything. Did the youth think he was ignoring him? Did he assume the bohemian vagabond front of him was toying him all along, enjoying his slight interest – then pushing him away with intentional indifference? Was his silence too long, was his short glance too cheeky that he insulted him, that he played his chance to weasel himself into his good graces?

Was he too selfish to look away, to dare to take his eyes off him?

He knew these types. He had had the chance to encounter with these more than once. Maybe too many times. Rich boys, spoiled boys, only children of their parents. They craved attention and threw a tantrum when they didn’t get it. Their parents wanted them to be treasured by gold and silver, on a fine canvas, preferably in heroic and stunning poses. Heroic and stunning – things that they had never been and would never be. They thought the whole world was rolling around them and it stops rolling when they die…

The whole damned world.

Now _this_ one would have deserved such privilege, for sure - he thought.

The Artist felt confusion, a maddening urge to fix the issue. His green, always vigilant eyes quickly found the desirable paleness. It was blinding in the dark, it was dressed in the soft shadows like an illusion. He drank the sight like a thirsty traveler of the Sahara drinks from the well of an oasis. He’d never noticed he was thirsty. Or maybe famished. And the enchantment happened.

Inspiration struck him like a lightning, his mind illuminated with a thousand scintillating sparks. The familiar ticklish-tingling sensation started overwhelming his whole body – it’d been ages when he felt such a thing. There was no word, no reason behind the vast feeling of the perfection that he experienced in that moment. Timeless, speechless, he let his eyes stop and he fixed his gaze on the beauty, the graceful disaster that occurred and stirred the universe within and around him. Was that Chaos? Was that a greater Chaos than he was? The silence weighed his soul and he forgot to recall the existence of time.

There was a dim light, barely helpful to someone who wanted to read a book or observe something detailed. The contours were soft, smeared, like the blonde youth was slowly melting into the darkness. Shadows trembled all over his marble skin, his back, the back of his thighs and calves – the things the Artist could see because Apollo was so vain, so cruel, he showed his back to him. Just like a treat, a confection, only titillating the senses but not giving anything palpable. Delayed gratification…

Was it a torture? Or it was fair and well-deserved that mortal eyes were not ready, not worthy, not allowed to see his whole, bared form.

Was it even normal to share the same space with him without losing the senses?

The Artist sank little bit deeper into the water, letting the warm lazy waves caress his bare chest. There was no satisfaction in the view anymore and there never will be. He teared his eyes away from the image and started watching the bath’s fluid, transparent surface. It didn’t take five seconds and he took another brief, hurried look at the right, just to check if the embodiment of his newfound inspiration was still there. He stretched his neck, tilting his head back to rest it on the tiled edge of the bath. This time, he took a slow, shaky breath, because the phenomenon didn’t lack colors anymore.

The blonde was wearing a great red towel on his shoulder, drying himself, wrapping his body in the fine material. It was ruby red, it looked like blood, covering the white skin with a terrible delicacy. _Gods bleed too._ The Artist thought and narrowing his eyes the title of his new work started getting formed in his mind.

_The Bleeding God._

“No.” He said, watching the other’s movements from beneath his half-closed eyelids. The youth glanced over his shoulder, his face was questioning. “I am not planning to entertain you.” Strangely, he didn’t feel stupid for giving a reply so late. The previous feeling of shame was gone, it was amusement that replaced it. Somehow, he felt victorious and powerful enough to, once again, get and keep the attention of the narcissistic creature. “I am planning to paint you though.”

He didn’t even wait the reaction, he was acting like the water was far more interesting than the whatever good looking young rich boy with his god-like appearance on the other side of the room. It was almost impossible to hide his diabolic smile that started curving the corners of his lips, as he heard the irritated sniff and the rustle of the towel. He imagined how the material stroked along the skin, that was a physical border of someone who was so full of himself. Touched the skin in a way he wished to touch it. The skin that revealed everything but hid the things that were maybe too terrible, too cold, too inhuman to see and know. The skin that was untouched. Touched by the light, touched by the dark, touched by the four elements but not by humans. He imagined the outraged, shocked and furious face of an angel – imagined the young boy being touched by hands. Preferably his hands. Imagined how the towel turns into greedy arms, all of a sudden, how the fingers play along the body like it was a musical instrument. Imagined how the owner of those hands would die a terrible death by the horrendous wrath of this god. How someone wants to experience the sensation of something divine but gets slayed by this virgin for the boldness. Because he was a cherub, barely made to be understood, not made to be mingled and slept with humans.

He imagined of that all, by listening to the noises of the scarlet colored towel. Because, this time, he deprived himself from the joy to look.

“Does it mean you choose my company over your vile addictions?”

The question was sharp, cutting like the blade of the finest sword but it couldn’t erase his smile. Because he sensed the triumph in the other’s voice, and it was priceless.

“Yes. Who knows, maybe I’ll find new ones.” he replied and sending a knowing glance he got out of the bath. He was quick with his moves, grabbing a green towel and drying himself negligently before he dressed. “Show me the way, Apollo. I wish to visit your altar. If I am in the mood, I’ll even offer a sacrifice.”

Existing beneath that intense gaze was excruciating, yet he kept the jovial attitude and, without truly waiting for the lead he started walking toward the marble arch. His whistles echoed through the corridors, he moved his hand toward the flame of torches till the fire started to burn and forced him to yank his hand back with a feeling of delighted rebelliousness.

They walked through hallways, used stairs that were covered by thick soft rugs. The chamber where the youth led him to was stylishly furnished and didn’t hide the true nature of its owner. There were not one but two mirrors - his Apollo was surely enjoying his own company.

“What would you like to do?” he asked the guest, turning to him now with a slaughterous grace.

Was he seriously asking it? Was it a trap, a devious challenge? He tightened his grip around the newfound bottle of wine and looked around. Started walking around the room.

“I would like to do many things. Preferably to you. With you. Call me daring.”

Even if it was daring, there was no disdain, no sharp judgement in those blue eyes. But a tiny bit of amusement. The blonde lifted his chin higher, and, with the same motion he tilted his head to the side. _Mock me._ The artist thought and pressed his lips to a thin line. Stubbornly. Nervously. Waiting for the punishment if he was destined to atone for the sinful words.

“Artista.” the blonde said, and a faint smile played on his feminine lips. His voice was so dispassionate that it was almost derisive. “We had a deal.”

 “Refresh my memory. I forget things, I am a human.” He leaned against the wall, lazily, negligently, lifting the bottle to his lips. “I am proud of being a human. With human needs. I’m proud to be always wrong. Proud to be the slave of earthly desires. Pleasure is our only luxury in life. I don’t want anything else just live the life of a mortal being.”

“What’s the purpose then?” His company muttered. His fingers turned whiter as he tightened his grip on his sash. He was wearing black silky tunic, probably his sleepwear. It looked expensive. It looked like molten obsidian on his light skin.

“To live. To feel. How could it be otherwise? We are humans with human way of thinking and human emotions. We are made of human therefore we act and live like a human.” He took a quick sip, bigger, wilder. “But you are something inhuman. Let me paint you.”

His Apollo mused, his jaw clenched, tension made his lips press together to a thin line, like a stubborn kid.

“I am not here to be at service of your bohemian whims.”

“Too bad. You would look divine on my canvas. Marble skin with…vermilion silk. I know exactly which shades I would use for that.” He smacked his tongue like the idea was tasty like a treat. Seeing the other’s face expression he sent a cheeky, half-sided grin. “You can’t deny you love your looks. Otherwise, you wouldn’t spend so much time with yourself.”

“So you call the act of bathing selfishness?” The blonde spat. Once again, he was fierce. Momentary change, a sudden frown adorned his boyish features, deepening the wrinkles between his brows. The Artist had to look away because he couldn’t stand seeing how it defiled his looks. “How would you know what I think of myself? You don’t even know me.”

“No, but I couldn’t miss a bath with a nymph. A dryad. A naiad!” Theatrically, the man made a drunk hand movement, like he was performing a scene on a stage. “How could an artist miss the chance of seeing a fine marble sculpture being touched by droplets of water? Wouldn’t Pygmalion follow his Creation to witness its first purification?”

The blonde rolled his eyes. There was something tempting in that cold disdain.

“…or perhaps his first fall to earth, descending to this hell.”

He knew begging wouldn’t work, but feeding this creature’s self-obsession, sick narcissism would get him somewhere. He had some unhealthy relationship with himself and his higher beliefs that existed in his head. Technically anything he could care about were the things that was himself. About himself. The Artist found this self-destructive condition strangely seductive.

 “What kind of benefit would it give to you?  If I allowed you to do that.  If I allowed you to treasure me. Besides the money.”

Hearing the voice, he winced. The room stopped spinning. He held the bottle with a numb hand, tightening his grip around its neck, just in case if the ground was too tricky and decided to make him lose his fragile balance.

“How nosy, all of a sudden.” Replied, trying to sound sarcastic. “It’s personal.”

“I hoped you had no disgusting purposes. But now I start doubting my naïve assumptions.”

“Good. Doubt them all you want.” The Artist waved him off, dismissively. Currently, he was trying to survive the turmoil inside his head. He was quickly distracted when the blonde walked to the bed and sat on its edge.

“So make me unforgettable with your skills.”

“You already are.” he sipped. He felt daring, he placed the bottle on the thick wooden desk. The scent of wine lingered in the air. “So I can’t make you that. I’d rather make you human.”

Curiosity and slight suspicion appeared in the blue eyes, and he didn’t move away when the Artist touched his cheek with a fingertip. Tracing an invisible trail down his chin where he stopped, tilted the divine head to the side and glanced at his model.

“Don’t move now.  I am sure you want me to petrify your beauty.  To make it last forever.  I will do that. But how about we have mutual benefits. Allow me to add my own little extra to the work.” he smirked.

“What would that extra be?” he asked. The voice was demanding.

“Apollo.” the Artist whispered, placing his finger on the feminine lips. Sealing them with a simple touch. All of a sudden, he felt so powerful. “You have no idea how difficult is to me to maintain my focus in order to see… Otherwise I ruin your perfection with a careless move.”

“You are not painting me yet, are you? You have nothing to ruin.”

“It is the foreplay already. I’m observing.”

“Is the pose appropriate?”

“Absolutely not. Lay down. Like you were capable of feeling tired and needed some rest.”

“I am actually capable of.” the youth replied. He admitted to himself, there was something satisfying in the game, like this stranger appreciated him the way he wished to be appreciated. Like this man was able to soothe some inner need of his, an inner demand. This man could see his true self. He treated him like he wished to be treated – he wanted to paint him, he found art in him. This man admired him and gave him the well-deserved validation like no other. Suddenly he felt painfully flattered. He wanted to make him his blind follower, wanted to see him crawling beneath his feet and shuddering beneath his words.

But he was not worthy for that. No one was worthy for his touch.

“Just like that. I want to treasure the moment when you are the closest to humanity.”

The blonde frowned, not truly understanding the point.

“You want to see me sleeping?”

“Smart idea. But I thought of something else.” he said, and taking his drawing board, a paper and a piece of coal and a pencil he pulled a chair and sat on it. “I want to see divinity collapsing into pieces beneath the power of physical sensations.”

“What do you mean?”

“Touch yourself.”

The strike of realization, like a vicious lighting striking his body, made him shudder with anger. He pushed himself upper with the help of his lower arms and furious flame started dancing in his pretty eyes.

“You want to see me acting like a whore?” he gritted his teeth and flush of humiliation started coloring his cheeks. “That’s not how I will be treasured on your or anyone’s canvas!”

“Not a whore. A human god.” the man said, lifting his brows innocently. He started tracing some lines on the paper. “I’ll make some sketches. I need to see every single shift of your body and face expression.”

“It is something new.”

“It is art. And you must suffer for it.” stated and grabbing the bottle he offered some wine.

And he suffered. There was a constant strange, nameless suffer beneath the solid surface, beneath the divine looks. Like icy shield covering the boiling lava. Like hell was captured and locked up by heaven. His self-control was inhuman. He was too selfish to let others see him like that. The slow work on it, how he managed to defeat himself step by step, just to throw away his pride for some brief minutes and gift his unique sight to a stranger-artist for personal gain, for seeing himself beautiful and divine on paper and canvas - it was maddening. He did it – maybe because he was curious to see the results. Maybe because he loved this strange, admiring attention. Maybe because the room was half-dark. Dark enough to cover him, to cover his obscure shape. The shape that only his owner was allowed to touch. And he touched.

He was like a paragon, his view was pageantry. There was no relish on that face, no sign of pleasure on that well-carved marble just stubborn, wild purposefulness. Fighting a bloody fight with his shame in order to become art and fall in love with his own portrait. He sacrificed himself on his own altar.

He invoked dangerous images in the Artist’s mind, front of the Artist’s eyes, like a primordial force, an ancient power. How slowly started to give in, his free hand was searching for something on the soft surface of the blanket, till his fingers curled into a fatal grasp. How he tilted his head back, pushing it back into the pillows, making his golden locks spread like laurels of Pan. His lips parted with some thrilling, marvelous awe and looked cherry-red and fatally perfect. He stretched his neck – fine, slender marble column, exposed so shamelessly and boldly like a taunting vulnerability. A shaky breath – the first, the unexpected, that made the Artist whisper profanities. He wished the other didn’t hear it. He wished he could add sounds to the different sketches, details on the paper, just to hear it again, whenever he wanted.

The pencil was racing on the paper, the coal made the Artist’s fingers messy, dirty, but he didn’t mind it. He wanted to get dirty.

He wanted to create something pure out of this dirt.

 “You cannot be real.” he whispered and glanced up – just to meet the blonde’s gaze. And he shuddered, because all he received was a smug, almost provocative glance. The coal on the paper traced a false line as his hand winced. The point of the pencil pressed against the paper vigorously. It broke.

The room’s previous silence was now shattered into a million pieces as the god beneath his own touches started gifting him sounds. The sneaky shadows tainted his face so he could notice a slight, delicate frown that adorned his flawless features. He sucked in breath; didn’t dare to look away. Didn’t dare to think. This sumptuous pale form was coyly sprawled on the soft bedsheets and pillows, there was still some careful dignity in his motions. He couldn’t imagine how could someone be so rigid. Dark little voices started whispering in the back of his head, started gnawing himself from the inside out. He wanted to touch him. He wanted to make him lose control. He was the type of artist that sensed art, didn’t just look at it.

He wanted to taste divinity so maybe he could become divine too.

With an inaudible motion he placed the drawing board and his pencil and coal on the desk and rose from the seat. Like a thief, ready to sin, he neared the bed and knelt. The youth’s eyes were closed, his borrows tangled into a slight frown as if he was deep in thought. As if he was in pain. The Artist didn’t dare to breathe, he slowly leaned in, being inches from the ethereal body. It was almost transparent, dark shadows hollowed the luminous surface – his collarbone, his hips. He felt his heart was racing so loud, he could almost go deaf. Breathing through his lips the youth’s chest was rising and falling and the Artist swallowed because he couldn’t stop his wandering hand.

“Do you permit it?...”

He whispered, watching him with hazed gaze. The husky voice trembled the air, the blonde’s eyes snapped open. Confused, wide open eyes gazed back at him, pupils dilated that made his face look even more younger. It was impossible to guess his age.

And he placed a shaking hand on his bare abdomen, not waiting for any permission. He risked everything. But it was worth it. The dry, rough palm and fingertips tainted the skin with light black coal as he stroked along the flawless surface - feeling the muscles getting tense beneath. 

One second – it felt like an eternity. He vaguely sensed the other’s defensive bodily reactions; how the rhythm of his breathing changed, how he stopped his hand and stopped gripping on the blanket with the other.

Another second – it was like being bewitched by some dark and ravaging force that grabbed him and tossed him all around and he forgot where he really was. What he really did. He moved upper, sliding between the blonde’s open legs, two palms being placed on the knees and slowly sliding up, giving a squeeze on his thighs. Like a predator, he pounced, leaning in and pressing his lips on the inner side of his right thigh, feeling the pumping blood beneath the thick vein, beneath his lips. Opening his mouth, he gave a slow bite on the tender flesh. He could even hear a silent moan of rebel and pleasure.

Third second – and he was gone.

 

Papers with thousand little sketches, drawings of half-done figures and details covered the floor of his room. In the morning, when he left the building, he gathered them and organized them with a little negligence. He could still feel the torturous headache of the hangover, as he had spent the night with the other boys and their drinks. There’d been a crowd, but one person was missing.

He had never seen him again. He only created him a memory and not art, as he promised. For himself, he created both. Taking a look at the sketches he knew he would be able to make the finest paintings of such priceless material. Even if his greedy behavior ruined the possibility, the inspiration in him was buzzing and it felt like it'd last forever.

He realized he didn’t even know his name.


End file.
